Rainy Day
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: One rainy weekend day in Bag End, Pippin tried to do all he could to dispel Frodo's sadness over Bilbo's departure.
1. pancakes

**_1. pancakes_**

**__**

****

The surest way to dispel a frown is by kissing it away.  

It was early morning and a heavy rain was beating a deep, steady rumble all over the smial roof.  You were making pancakes for second breakfast and I was sitting at the table, eating crumpets.  I was telling you about an old, hollow log where I could snuggle up and take a long nap so no one could find me and I would not have to learn my numbers with Pearl, she was a mean teacher, you know, you should see her when she found that I had drawn her face on my paper with two horns on each side of her head and smoke coming out of her nostrils, but the log was not all that safe, you know, because one day I went there and found that I was sharing it with a skunk…

You had been listening to my chatter with an occasional chuckle and _Hmmm_ and _Really, Pip?_ amid the hiss of the batter on the hot skillet and the _zing_ of the spatula and the slap of pancakes being flipped.  The pile of pancakes stood higher and higher on the big plate you kept warm near the fire and even though I had done nothing but nibbling since first breakfast, I was once again hungry.   Then you scooped the last pancakes, plopped them on the plate, picked it up, whirled around, and saw the empty chair where Bilbo used to sit at the head of table.  

You were smiling when you turned toward the table, your eyes shining, your face slightly flushed and sweat-slicked from the heat of the fire and your mouth was open a little as though you were about to say something.  But in the time that it took you to see that empty chair, the smile disappeared, your lips clamped shut and the light in your eyes dimmed until all I saw was twilight and mist.  And you frowned.

Cousin Bilbo left three days ago, on Thursday, the day of your birthday.  On Friday you and Merry had had a hectic and exhausting time with the presents Bilbo left for friends and relatives, and maybe it was all that kept you from thinking about Bilbo.  When Mamma and Papa came yesterday afternoon, to put me in your care while they spent Sunday and Monday with Mamma's family in Michel Delving, you looked so relieved and happy to welcome us, cook for us and stay up talking with us before taking me to sleep on your bed where you told me a tale that only kept me wide awake and excited until you sang me that long, slow, lazy lullaby that you said was in Elvish.  

I noticed that we never did once mention Bilbo, perhaps because you always became suddenly quiet when we brought up the topic of his disappearance.  Mamma and Papa had been really careful and they even warned me not to say anything about Bilbo to you because it might hurt you.  They also told me to be good and keep Cousin Frodo company because right now he was sad and lonely.  I promised them I would do my best.

So I had been careful and had talked about everything and anything except Bilbo.  But how could I tell the empty chair to be mindful of your heart?

You sighed and went to the table setting the plates before me.  The stacks of pancakes were mountainous, dripping with butter and sending a powerful smell that made my stomach growl.  I knew you always added cream to your batter, but somehow your pancakes always turned out fluffy and smooth and much, much tastier than the ones our cook made in the Smials.  No one loved your pancakes more than Bilbo.  He could eat three, four stacks of five pancakes in one sitting.  You never made pancake batter in the smaller bowls; you always used the biggest one.  You did that this morning, too.  I glanced at the bowl, its lip dripping with creamy batter.  You must have prepared enough pancakes for Bilbo and you and me.  Only now there were only you and me.

The clouds still hung on your face when you sat and started eating in silence, still wearing that frown on your brow.  I smiled brightly and smacked my lips, slathering raspberry jam all over the topmost pancake on my plate.  

"You'd better eat fast, cousin," I said, "before I finish off these pancakes all by myself."  I wanted to fold my pancake in half and stuff it into my mouth, to further show the seriousness of my threat, but it was hot and started to break along the fold, letting out tiny puffs of steam.  Reluctantly I reached for my knife and fork.  I knew you were watching me all the time.

"You can't eat so many pancakes, Pip, you'll only upset your stomach," you said with a small smile.   "Eat slowly now.  You don't want to choke."

I said something with my mouth full of pancake.  You stopped eating and shook your head, your smile widening.  "I did not catch that, Pip.  Swallow first so I can hear you without ducking bits of pancake."

I grinned and chewed faster; swallowing that warm mouthful of rich, soft, sweetness before requesting "Can I have sausages and mushrooms with my pancakes?"

You raised your eyebrows and sparkles began to shine in your eyes as you shook your head.  "Pip, you have not stopped eating since first breakfast.  How can you still have room for mushrooms and sausages with your pancakes?"

I could limit my elevenses to tea and toast or stay in my room, sleeping off the full belly.  Besides the pancakes were _so_ good.  And the frown and the gloom in your eyes were fading away.

"I'm growing, Frodo," I informed you.  "There's always room because I keep growing.  Don't worry.  Now, can I have mushrooms and sausages?"

You shook your head and suddenly laughed.  Rising from your chair, you reached to muss my hair, and I caught your wrist.  You looked at me with one eyebrow raised, but I said nothing and with my other hand I beckoned you to bend closer.  You dutifully lowered your head to hear whatever ridiculous things you thought I was going to say.  But this time I only kissed you on the brow, one last stroke in the battle against that ugly frown that should not have dared to come into your face.  

You blinked and looked at me.  My kiss smeared a ragged circle of red stickiness between your eyebrows.   There was even a bit of jam on the lock of hair that went under my puckered lips when I kissed you.  You straightened up, smiled, stroked my head and with a laugh went to fry me some mushrooms and sausages.  You were no longer frowning.

==


	2. books

**_2. books_**

I found you in the study that afternoon.  You stood before the tall bookcase that stood along one wall.  You rested your forehead on the row of leather-bound books on the shelf in front of you, both of your palms splayed on more book spines on either side of your head.  You looked as though you were leaning on the bookcase for support.  

I crept nearer and peered into your face.  Your eyes were shut; your lips set into a straight, grim line; your brow creased with a frown.

"Frodo?" I called softly, touching your elbow.  "Frodo, why are you asleep standing up?"

Your eyes opened and blinked and I put on my brightest smile.   Your eyes glowed softly and, with an obvious reluctance, you stepped away from the bookcase.   "I didn't hear you wake up, Pip," you murmured.  You looked pale, your voice was low and your hands shook slightly.  "Do you need anything?"

"No, cousin, thank you," I said, troubled by your sadness.  I knew the books were the strongest link that tied you with Bilbo.  Suddenly I realized that I had not seen you touch any of them during my stay, as though you were fearful that they would usher in too many memories on top of the thinly-veiled weight of grief you were already carrying.  And when I saw you again in my mind, a picture of longing and sorrow draped over the books you used to pore over together with Bilbo, I imagined that you were trying to immerse yourself in those pages and find your way through the maze of the curves and lines of the letters, to Bilbo.  I shuddered in terror and quickly seized your wrist.

"I'm bored," I complained desperately.  "I want to play outside."

"It's raining, Pip," you stated, glancing briefly at the window.  "You'll catch a cold playing in this weather."

"Let's play inside then," I insisted, half-tugging at your hand.  "Hide-and-seek."

You shook your head with a pained expression in your face.  "No.  I'm not interested in any game that includes rescuing you when you got stuck in the chimney."

I grinned sheepishly.  Then my eyes caught the books that neatly lined the shelf.  My eyes widening, I looked up at you, breathless with the brilliant idea that had suddenly sparked in my mind.  "Let's play the siege of the Lonely Mountain," I said in a grave whisper.  "I'll be Thorin and you can be the Elvenking.  What do you think?"

Your brow quirked upward, a gleam of amusement in your eyes.  "What do I have to do?"

"Well, first we must raise the Lonely Mountains, I think."

And so we hauled the books off the shelves and stacked them in the space between two armchairs to make a fortress for me.  You turned the small table in the corner onto its side and used it as a shield.  Armed with the pinecones that you heaped in the basket by the fire, we began the siege.

It was a success.  Especially after you offered me the crystal vase Arkenstone and I stoutly refused to accept it and you stormed into my fortress using the foul trick of making me think you were still hiding behind the table while you cunningly crept to the southern side of the fortress and caught me by surprise when you suddenly attacked by toppling the armchair onto its back and with a whoop coming upon me, brandishing the vilest weapon imaginable.  Your fingers.

"Stop, Frodo, stop!" I shrieked at the top of my lungs between bouts of fierce giggles, kicking and scratching futilely at you.  "I surrender!  I surrender, do you hear?"

"And shall the hoard of the Lonely Mountains be ours?" you demanded sternly, still tickling me mercilessly.

"Take it!  Take it all!" I gasped breathlessly.  You relented, sitting back and looking down at me with a smirk.  

All around us the fortress wall lay in rubble, a page open here to reveal a long string of Elvish poetry; another was creased, juxtaposing the painting an axe-wielding dwarf warrior and that of a cask of ale; the smell of old paper, sweat, crushed pinecones and wood smoke was thick in the air.  

"I think I deserve a hero's funeral," I gasped at last.  "I did put up a valiant defense, didn't I?"

"You surely did, Pip," you snorted.  "Where do you want me to bury you?"

"Deep beneath the mountain," I intoned gravely.  

"In the kitchen then," you said, holding back chuckles.  "Very well."

You gathered me into your arms and stood up with a grunt.  "You're getting heavier, Pip," you panted as you started to walk.  "Soon you will be as fat and round as Bombur."

"No, I won't," I said, wrapping my arms around you and burying my face in your neck.  "I shall be tall.  I shall be much taller than you and Merry.  You'll see."

To my alarm, you did not head straight for the door.  You went to your desk and lowered me slightly.  

"Take a quill," you said, gesturing with a glance toward the desk. 

"Frodo, the game is finished.  You can't tickle me anymore," I answered anxiously.

"I am not going to tickle you again," you assured me.  "Orcrist, remember?  Thorin was buried with Orcrist on his breast."

"Oh, you're right!" I squealed excitedly.  I grabbed a quill and clasped it to my breast.  "How do I look?"

"Very heroic," you said with a laugh, the crease smoothed out on your brow.

==


	3. rain

**_3. rain_**

****

You stood by the window holding your mug of tea in both hands, staring out.  There was little to see.  The hill was a stretch of puddle-strewn grass, the sky a cheerless grey; the flowers in the garden drooped under the weight of the water.  But something out there seemed to hold your gaze.  I stood by your side, anxiously watching the deepening furrow between your eyebrows.  What were you seeing, Frodo?

Were you seeing Bilbo?  Out there in the rain?

You heaved a deep, ragged sigh and put your mug down on the windowsill.  You could not drink it, could you, thinking that Bilbo could not have lit a fire to boil water to brew tea?

Your eyes were empty.  The pale light of the rain-washed afternoon blurred the features of your face, robbing them of color and definition, while the glow of the fire in the kitchen bathed your back, and your dark hair had glints in it like little sparks set in the heart of midnight.  Cloud grey and flame gold, you looked so distant, I did not know you, I could not reach you.  The fear chilled me.  

You did not stir when I left your side.  You did not turn when I opened the door and stepped out of the smial.

The cold stunned me for a moment before the utter joy of finally being outside overrode the discomfort and I ran, yelling and skipping, to the first puddle, splashed in it, reveling in the delicious sound of wet grass under my feet.  I ran around the gentle swell that housed the kitchen and back rooms of Bag End, knowing that if I scaled the hill from the other side you would be able to see me through the window in the kitchen.  

I paused outside the window.  It was a yellow red circle on the side of the hill and you were the shadow that cleaved the light. I thought I saw you tense for a second.

Did you think you were seeing Bilbo?

I waved cheerily, laughing and tasting rain in my mouth.  In that instant you fled from the window, and the golden light that flowed from it was once again perfectly round.  I heard the door slam shut.  With a gleeful laugh, I started climbing the slippery hill, digging my fingers into the cold, soft earth to steady myself when the runneling rainwater made me lose my footing.  

"Pip!" I heard you shout behind me, but I did not pause nor turn nor stop giggling…

"_Pip!_  Come back here!"  

Nearly at the top, I whirled and with a squeal threw myself on the ground, hugging my feet close so that I slid down like a muddy boulder…

…into your arms.  You tumbled backward into a puddle.  

"Peregrin Took!" you growled as you raised yourself up to dislodge me from your lap.

I knew you were mad when you started calling me by that name, but I only laughed as I grabbed a handful of mud and splattered it on your shirt.  Your eyes widened, your jaws clenched, but before you could say anything, I wiped my muddy hand on your face then rose and ran away chortling.  "The Baggins Bogey!  Flee!  Flee!  It's the Baggins Bogey!"

You rose and chased me across the garden.  I went to hide behind the raspberry bush and peppered you with more mud and you dove for the bush with a roar while I ran away squealing, letting you pursue me and laughing so hard when I saw you slip and fall into yet another puddle.  

Finally, not even the warmth caused by all the running and laughing could subdue the cold that I began to feel in my bones, chilling me so that my teeth chattered.  I hid behind the apple tree in the lower garden and when you came near, looking around warily and pushing back dark ribbons of wet hair from your dirty face, I ambushed you with a shrill scream and you were so taken aback that you staggered back under my weight and we both fell and rolled on the now mud-streaked grass.  

"Cousin Frodo!" I cried as I looked down at your stunned face.  "You're safe!  The Baggins Bogey did not get you!"

"Peregrin!" you snarled threateningly.  But when you laid your hands on my arms and felt me shiver you immediately stood and dragged me toward the smial.  By then I was too chilled to protest.  When I lurched, you stopped, took one look at me and quickly lifted me up.  I wrapped my legs around your waist and held you tight, but you were no less cold and I could feel you shiver too.  I lay my head on your shoulder, feeling suddenly empty.  I had meant to get you out to play, to laugh and to forget the thought of Bilbo huddling miserably in the rain out in the wilderness.  But I only made you cold; I only made you worry even more, not only for Bilbo, but for me as well.  The sob came rather unexpectedly and you stilled briefly in your stride, before holding me even closer, one hand stroking the sticky mass that was my hair and mud.

==


	4. bath

**_4. bath_**

The kitchen floor had an interesting pattern of muddy tracks and little pools of dirty water.  A grubby sleeve of my shirt dangled from the bucket near the door.  Steam rose from the water in the bucket you had placed near the washtub, and in the fire, the kettle gurgled with the promise of more boiling water.  I stood shivering in the tub, even as the heat from the nearby fire licked the damp skin of my belly.  You began to pour hot water over my head and I spluttered.

 "I can bathe myself," I protested, pushing your hand away.  "I'm almost twelve!"  

"And very dirty," you returned, heedless of my objection.  "You'll never get all the mud out yourself, especially from your hair and toes.  Believe me.  I was twelve once and my aunt used to bathe me as a punishment so I would know better next time than to wallow in the mud."  You poured more water and ran your fingers through the muddy tangles of my hair.  

"What did you wallow in the mud for?" I asked, deciding that I would let you bathe me just this once, because it was so nice and I was too chilled.  

"How else can you play mud fight?" you said reasonably, lathering my hair and wincing as the water ran brown down my chest.  

"We never bathe in the kitchen at home," I told you, closing my eyes as soapy water snaked its way down my face.  

"The bathroom is cold.  I just lit the fire there when I picked up the tub," you said, massaging my scalp.  "Besides I have no wish to see your muddy footprints from here to the bathroom."

"You have bigger feet," I pointed out.  "More mud sticks to them."

"My…  Pippin!"  Though you sounded gruff, there was a hint of smile in your voice.  "I would not have mud all over me, not to mention all the way up the corridor and here in the kitchen if you had not dragged me out into the rain, pounced me into puddles and wrestled me on the ground."  

You rinsed the soap out of my hair with a few scoops of water and pushed back the dripping curls from my face.  "There," you smiled, "I thought it was you under all that mud."

I scowled at you, but was secretly glad to see you smile.  

You ran the washcloth over my ears and laughed when I said, "Stop it!  That tickles!"  You pretended to be mad when I trailed my soapy fingers across your nose, but your eyes twinkled.  I put my hand on your shoulder when you knelt to wash my feet, giggling as you chided me, saying that the Gaffer could grow potatoes in the dirt trapped in my foot hair.   You looked up, hearing my laughter, and I caught that familiar smirk on your lips.  

Who would keep that smile on your face when you were alone?

You toweled me dry and bundled me in the quilt that you snatched from the rocking chair near the window.  Armed with a mug of tea and a heap of biscuits, I sat on the rocking chair and watched you warm my clothes and yours near the fire, clean the kitchen and finally go for a wash in the bathroom.  When we were all dressed up and warm again, I helped you set the table for dinner.  

"Are you all right, Pip?" you asked, after I finished my second helping of meat and potatoes.  "You haven't said anything since after the bath."

I toyed with my peas before I could look you in the eye and answer, "Will you leave too?"

Your fork stopped mid-air and you stared at me with your lips pressed together.  "Leave where?" you asked, your tone careful.  

"Wherever Bilbo went to," I said, rather sulkily.  "I miss him too, you know.  I miss his tales, and I miss his songs, and I miss the way he laughs.  But if …  but if you leave, who will be my friend here in Hobbiton?  And what if Merry decides to go too?  What if…"

You reached and seized my wrist.  "Pip," you said firmly.  "I am staying here."

"But you don't look happy.  You frown and look sad all the time," I argued.  I knew it was unseemly for a lad of nearly twelve summers to weep like a baby, but I almost could not fight back the tears anymore.  "You miss him, don't you?  You want to be with him."

You let go of my wrist and clasped my hand in yours.  "I do," you admitted slowly.  "But I am not going to leave, Pip.  Do you know why?"

I shook my head.

"I love it here.  I love Bag End.  I love Hobbiton," you answered, your voice steady and reassuring.  "I love my friends and my cousins.  I am not going to leave them.  I am not leaving you."

"Is that why Cousin Bilbo left?" I asked in a small voice.  "Has he stopped liking us?  Did we do something that angered him and made him go away?"

I immediately wished I had not asked the questions.  A sudden burst of sorrow came into your eyes and you tightened your grip around my hand.  You looked down at the table for a while but when your eyes met mine again, they were clear and untroubled.  

"No," you said.  "He still loves us deeply.  He will miss us too, I think, even more than we miss him.  But he will be happy."

You stopped, gazing at me.  Your eyes glowed and a sudden light bloomed in your face.  The lines of worry and sadness vanished from your face at a single smile that suddenly touched your lips.

"He will be happy," you repeated.  But not for me, I thought, even as your eyes were fixed on mine.  Then you blinked and when you spoke again, I knew you meant every word for me.  "As happy as I will be, Pip, staying here."

I slid from my chair and stood before you, holding your eyes with my gaze.  

"Will you promise me one thing, Frodo?" I said, more seriously than I had ever been in my life.  "If you want to leave like Cousin Bilbo, you will tell me.  And you will let me go with you."

"O I'm trembling with fright," you smirked.  "You look terrible when you frown, Pip."

"Promise me, Frodo," I demanded, more fiercely.  "Friends don't leave each other behind.  Promise me."

You nodded, still smiling.  "I promise," you said.  And with that you framed my face in your hands and kissed my brow.

==


	5. remembrance

**_5. remembrance_**

****

The old hobbit missed the bright fire in his smial.  He missed his soft bed and his warm, fragrant kitchen.  The trees swayed in the cold wind and water drizzled over the company of three dwarves and one hobbit huddling miserably beside the East Road.  Water dripped from the hobbit's hood and he shivered, pulling his old cloak around him.

He did not regret his decision, though.  The open road gave him back the exhilaration of youth, the thrill of the unknown and the promise of adventure.  His legs were aching but he felt that he could walk for at least another league or two before night came to end the dismal grayness of his third day on the road.

But still, when he lifted his eyes to stare at the bleak, pale sky, he thought of how much the rain reminded him of his beloved boy.

_"And that's the black river there, that one that springs from the marigold clumps and joins the bigger stream before it reaches the snapdragons.  Look!  There's the boat!  Look!  Look!  It's moving very swiftly, isn't it? The current whips around the strawberry bush.  I don't think the boat will be able to float past that boulder.  Oh!  It's been upturned!  I wonder if there is any survivor.  Surely some of the dwarves will be able to reach the banks.  They have to.  They are the only remaining hope that the dwarves can reach the Apple Tree Mountain and re-claim their lord's magic sword.  Oh, the banks are too slippery.  Look!  Oh, the poor thing!  He fell into the river again.  Pull him out!  Pull him out before he gets swept away!  Heave now!  Heave!  Oh, he's saved!  He's saved!   …"_

_Bilbo massaged his temples and put down the book he had been trying--with very little success--to read for the past hour.  He glanced sideways to the window seat where a lad was kneeling, facing the window, face cupped in two slender hands, elbows resting on the windowsill.  He was excitedly describing the adventures of a host of dwarves in the wild and wet world of the Bag End garden on a rainy autumn day.  At first, Bilbo was fascinated with the fourteen-year old imagination: he could see a mere puddle transformed into a great lake filled with monstrous flesh-eating fish, while the rose bush served as a veritable enchanted forest filled with elves.  The tool shed in the corner of the garden was the kingdom of the dwarves and the apple tree was the dreaded Mountain where an evil wizard resided in a fortress guarded by dragons._

_At least he was kept busy for a while; Bilbo had thought when he left the boy's side to continue his reading.  A fourteen-year old hobbit cooped up on a rainy day was not the best of company, especially for Bilbo, who enjoyed spending his afternoon reading in the warm quiet of his study.  There were not many things in Bag End to occupy the active lad's mind.  Bilbo had tried giving Frodo books to read and though the lad was quickly engrossed in reading, after an hour or so his attention wavered and he began to fidget again.  Bilbo had made the mistake of setting the lad loose in the kitchen, with disastrous results.  The cakes that came out of the oven were perfect, but Bilbo still wondered how Frodo got those blobs of batter on the ceiling.  The two hobbits iced and cut one of the cakes for elevenses.   The boy kept giggling whenever a bead of batter fell onto the layer of flour on the table and he nearly fell off his chair laughing when a particularly large drop splashed into Bilbo's tea.  _

_Of course, compared to the kitchen scene, the saga of the imaginary dwarves in the garden was tame and harmless.  Still, Bilbo wished that the boy would keep his commentaries to himself.  A throbbing ache began to thump behind Bilbo's eyes.  Frodo's steady drone, interspersed by high-pitched squeals, made it difficult for Bilbo to concentrate, let alone enjoy his book._

_"Frodo," Bilbo called._

_"Jump!  Jump over the creek!  Hurry!"_

_"Frodo!"_

_The boy stopped suddenly and turned.  "Yes, Bilbo?" he asked, all innocence and sweetness._

_"Would you find some place else to play, lad?  I wish to have some peace and quiet for a few hours while I finish reading this book," said Bilbo._

_Frodo's eyebrows crept up into his bangs.  "Oh, of course, Bilbo," he said, jumping off the couch. "I'm sorry I've disturbed you.  I'll leave you to your book then."_

_He gave Bilbo a cheery smile as he ran toward the door.  Bilbo shook his head fondly.    The lad seemed to delight in getting anywhere in a gallop as though he had very little time in the world.  The eagerness alerted Bilbo, though.  He quickly raised his voice to a bellow and shouted, "No need to cook, Frodo!  We have plenty of cake for tea!"_

_He could hear a solicitous "Yes, Bilbo!" somewhere in the many rooms of the smial.  _

_"And leave the laundry and the laundry soap alone!" added Bilbo._

_He could hear Frodo's laugh coming from rather far away.  Bilbo heaved a deep breath of relief and returned to his book._

_In the end it was the silence that distracted him.  Frodo had been altogether too quiet for too long and Bilbo was suspicious.  With a sigh he put down his book and went in search of the lad._

_He could not find Frodo in his room.  He was not in the kitchen, not in any of the various pantries, not in the bathroom; nowhere, in fact, inside the smial.  Only when he passed the foyer did Bilbo notice that the front door was slightly ajar.  His brow furrowing in anger Bilbo took his cloak from the peg near the entrance and, pulling it about him, went out in search of Frodo._

_He did not have to look for long.  He found Frodo standing in the center of the garden, looking up with an enraptured look on his face.  _

_"Frodo," began Bilbo, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice.  "What do you think you're doing, lad, standing here in the rain?"_

_"Bilbo!" gasped Frodo.  His hair was plastered like dark weeds onto his face; his eyes were huge and ecstatic, despite the way he shivered and the bluish tint to his lips. "I'm watching the rain!  It's like magic."_

_"Fiddlesticks!  There's no magic in the rain!" was Bilbo's clipped retort, putting a hand on the lad's shoulder and attempting to steer him into the smial.  "Come inside before you catch a cold."_

_"But Bilbo," Frodo stubbornly held his ground, clutching at Bilbo's sleeve with one hand and pointing at the sky with another.  "There is no watering can.  There is no bucket.  Where does the water come from then?  Empty air?  And it's everywhere!  Look!  Bilbo, this _is_ magic!"_

_Bilbo stared at Frodo's face and thought that the only magic in the world was the look of wonder in those bright, spellbound eyes._

The old hobbit drew in a deep, quivering breath.  He was suddenly glad it was raining and water was coursing freely down his face.  He closed his eyes and a touch of warmth slid down his cheeks as he remembered the hobbit he left behind.

~fin~


End file.
